The Battling Of Our Dreams
by Lisa Zaran
We lost our way
along the curving outskirts
of Kansas City.
Back into the overgrown,
evergreen residential parts,
where tiny, squared off houses
seemed to crumble their walls
and fleck their paint just by the passing
of our rental-car engine.
We were sure that if we stopped
to ask for directions, the people there
would kill us. Why we jumped to such
a drastic conclusion, who knows?
Maybe it was the tone of the birds,
unseen in the trees, and their chirps
of warning, as if to heed, get, get, get
out while you still can!
The air was thick with moisture. Mop-like
and heavy in our lungs. We were lost.
Trapped inside of our own misadventure.
Dreams split apart at the seams.
Oh but Victoria, wasn't it worth it?
That weather, those people so unwelcome
toward us two West coast girls,
the driving, the bad directions, the hours
it took to finally find the stadium.
Front row, center stage,
the churning crowds,
the drunken threats.
The hours spent standing,
holding our own between sets,
until finally, that one lone bird,
pretty as a sunset, to draw the
dark hours by and by, to cry out
loud into the sky,
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.
XXX
About Lisa Zaran>>
I am a poet and essayist living in Arizona.
I have authored two collections, the sometimes
girl, InnerCircle Publishing, and
You Have A Lovely Heart, Little Poem Press.
Check out her Dylan-riddled blog here:
http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=lisazaran
in Yet Another Leap Year
For E. Arce
by Jun de la Rosa
It has been 4 years since February 29th
When you told me we could only celebrate
In years divisible by four, and I laughed at
the thought.
Yet I continued running my fingers through
your hair—
Texture softer, kinder than your words.
I slicked the strands back with clay,
Shaped them into waves of water,
Blades of grass, crowns of beauty.
Washing them off,
The dark-brown filaments were too gentle to
have fallen,
So I groped for the remaining watermarks on
your hair.
You asked me what was it I found.
I said, “I am looking for you now
Before you are gone.”
Some random thoughts, I learned, stay—
Your hair now just the shadow of a closing
door,
The closing of years;
Plain strands tangled around my fingers,
Gathered as in surprise reunions,
Collected by chance.
Can’t you feel my fingers
When you rinse your hair
The weight of water denser, like a hundred
combs?
Your words cannot be as gentle:
You left me with your leap years, the rarest
of days;
But you are not forgiven for leaving
The fewer moments of your hair
When I would run my fingers through it.
xxx
TO THE LADY CHANGING
THE CURTAINS
by Jun de la Rosa
They say spinsters keep the saddest tales
in the wrinkles stretching from the mouth,
collected with every sealing.
Hide them in the creases around the fingers,
in the palms, in anything that folds,
as they awaken to scrub the floor—
Their long hairs dusting anything wooden,
their skirts sweeping every footprint
as they move, weightless as veils.
Tell me what is your story, why you open your
eyes
before everyone else, the gas lamp swaying
slowly from your hands as you step down the
logs
without the sound of someone coming?
I must be awake to welcome visitors from the
town—
ladies chasing each other barefoot, naked,
giggling
before any form of light and sound settles in.
And shhhh. Later they will gather around me
on the floor spared from dust,
lying on their sides, wanting to hear tales,
these lines engraved deep in the forehead—
Love stories to warm their breasts and hips
with a blanket as white as lies spreading in
my hair.
xxx
Brief bio:
Jun de la Rosa is 31, from the Philippines.
He was awarded the Ateneo Dean's Award for
Literature in 1994, and has attended various
writing workshops. His works have appeared
in major magazines and literary books in
the Philippines, and will soon be seen in
Writers Publishing (Canada), Rattle
(California), and Marianas Variety (Marianas).
Now, he dreams of having his collection of
poems published and released
internationally.
He is currently the president of the Filipino
literary organization Peaks that seeks to
cultivate creative writing outside the
academic institutions.
Please visit www.peaks.tambay.org and see
what the Philippines can offer the world.
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Nevermind, her womb spoke to me,
grinning, laughing, and smiling,
I'm not carrying your child, big guy.
Convinced I didn't argue with it.
Her womb was a garden of chaos,
too dangerous for any snake to
trespass or hide in. Her womb
was a mystery, which had special
needs. I was not welcome to
offer a thing. Its mind was made.
I wasn't the right type for it and
her children would not be ours.
xxx
About Luis:
"I was born in Mexico. I have lived in Los
Angeles County, CA going on 30 years. My first
book of poetry, Raw Materials was published by
Pygmy Forest Press this year. I work in the
mental health field. Cedar Hill Review, Blue
Collar Review, and Pemmican Press have
published oraccepted some of my poems."
by Wayne H.W. Wolfson
The two words you ache for the most are also the
hardest (to find) .
The clouds rolled back, a burlesque shows
curtains rising for the matinee. That big stupid
animal waiting to devour me, the crowd waiting.
Waiting
A bird flew by, I had seen the wires attached to its
wings.
Indifferent, they clap.
She would be back. She always came back,
sometimes looking different. The first few times I
had asked her where she was, where she had
been.
"Shhh, just play your horn."
I got back at her though. No, not the smacks, those
did not mean anything either way. I simply stopped
asking. It's what she wanted and it hurt her.
She was not around enough to realize one of the
floor boards in the hall creaked. It always had.
The creak, the flip of the switch and Manha de
Carnaval.
Even in complete absence of light I could play it
well. Always the same ritual.
She would drape her jacket over the back of the
chair. I would move it, but just a little. Thinking she
knew where it was, a miss, fumbling in the dark.
Now the blouse was unbuttoned. It rested on the
chair. A soft, warm silken skin whose color was
fading.
She lay on her back, blowing smoke rings which I
tried to pierce with final notes, up at the ceiling.
"Is anyone coming over?"
She always asked, but by now she knew I did not
like people, at least not anybody living. All my
heroes were dead.
All any of us could hope for was distraction.
Steady. Feet in the small of my back, the scent of
vodka, tobacco, the scent of ruin. Promises
murmured with closed eyes. True, but only for that
moment.
Muscles contract, it's heaven. Fleeting. Heaven,
momentary and then exile.
The music was a distraction too, but that at least
mattered. It had to.
There was a semblance of control too. A give and
take that did not seem so tawdry. The cold
mouthpiece always warmed. I had to have it and
she worked with me.
On an inspired night I would oil the valves and let
my fingers dance. We would tickle the dawn. The
last song a repeat of the first, but no one seemed
to notice.
She always came back. It always came back, the
pain of loneliness, a fire kept stoked by the
accompanying embarrassment.
The two words you ache for most are also the
hardest.
Good bye.
xxx
My name is Wayne Wolfson.
I am a California based author. My works have
appeared in many journals and sites including
Word Riot, Aesthetica and Happy.
www.waynewolfson.com (bonus pic below...)
KARL KOWESKI?!
the patron saint of poetry
there is no patron saint
of small press poetry
there are scarcely any
patrons of the small press
only poets reading poets
writing poetry in obscurity
toward no greater purpose
than small press publication
the first grade lothario
I’m sitting with my wife and daughter
sharing lunch in the grade school cafeteria
Gloria is student of the week
lunch with her parents being one of the
perks
I sit on a yellow stool six inches off
the ground, knees lodged against my
earlobes
the little girl seated at my right tugs
at the sleeve of my leather jacket
she turns her face up to me and smiles
there’s a smattering of freckles across
the bridge of her nose that her
parents probably think are cute
what’s your name? She asks
Karl
what’s your favorite animal?
plankton
what’s your favorite four legged animal?
gazelle
what’s your favorite color?
anything other than black
what direction am I pointing?
up
now you ask me those questions, she says
Olivia, horse, and purple are her answers
when I point my finger to the left and
ask her what direction, a swarthy kid
with chicken grease all over his face
reaches over and latches on, pulling
with all his strength commanding me to fart
leave him alone, Olivia shouts
and the boy cowers back to his lunch tray
Gloria pats me on the shoulder
Olivia likes you, Gloria says
I look at Olivia and she nods
I glance away and the boy across from
us narrows his eyes and cracks his knuckles
he’d been unsuccessfully attempting
to engage Olivia in a conversation
about his Batman toy for the last ten minutes
xxx
KK: I'm just about thirty years old and it looks
like I'll be spending the next thirty firmly
entrenched inside a factory. I'm originally
from Chicago but somehow I ended up on
top of a mountain in Alabama. The reason
for this, of course, involves a woman.
My poems and stories have been published
throughout the small press and
internet. I have a collection of stories,
Playthings, out through
Future Tense Press and a collection of
poems, Internet Killed the Mimeo Star,
available through Hemispherical Press.
Hope you enjoy the poems.
by Amber Whitman
It happened one night , I started to shake,
I could not stop and was afraid,
I was taken to the hospital.
I was put in a glass box, and I felt like a freak.
I finally fell asleep.
The doctor came in sometime towards dawn,
I was half asleep.
He started to talk and tell me some things,
I expected more for such an experience.
He sent me home.
When being at home , it became to much.
I could not be alone and would have an attack.
The panic was back.
The panic it stayed for many years and still
remains.
It comes and goes in different strains.
I do not take the pills , and put them away.
I have learned to keep the panic at bay.
The thing that helped me was breathing deeply.
It is something in our brains seemingly.
To learn to control it, it is hard at first.
It gets easier, when you get over the worst.
I know it is there just under the surface
xxx
Dawn of My Future
by Amber Whitman
Like stars in the night sky.
The future is bright.
I have left the past behind.
The pain will always be there, inside.
But this is the dawn of the future.
This will bring changes in my life.
I have to find the person I am, separate from
others.
There are parts of my life that will never change.
I will always be a mother, daughter, lover, giver,
friend.
But now I will do more for myself.
xxx
Amber:
I live in Toronto, Ontario with my fiancee of 12
years. I also have a 12 year old son. I have been
writing short stories, articles and poetry since my
youth. I have written for various online sites such
as Webster's Online Dictionary and have won
various Poetry Choice Awards. In my youth, I
attended a convention where I won medals for my
work. I am now a published author and wish to
continue enlightening people with my works. If
you are interested in viewing some of my work,
you can visit
http://pages.ivillage.com/homebody2001
